


Lawless

by PlasticRamen



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Gore, Branding, Caleb is not a nice old man in this, Canon-Typical Violence, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Girls in Chains, Gun Violence, Inappropriate Behavior, Kidnapping, Nameless Protagonist, Oral Sex, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, rule-breaking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:49:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27710942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlasticRamen/pseuds/PlasticRamen
Summary: She's new.He can tell...
Relationships: Caleb Quinn | The Deathslinger/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yeahhh idk, I'm tired of writing/reading 'nice' Deathslinger, so I went with something a bit nastier this time. I've done the kidnapping theme with him before, but there's an upsetting lack of 'Slinger smut in the DBD community, and by God, I aim to fill that void. Pun intended.
> 
> My female surv is essentially a reader self-insert (she has no name and no background). I just didn't want to write in second-person, as it's a personal preference.

She wanders through the Red Forest, though she isn’t aware of its name. 

Red is the last color on her mind while she limps through patches of dense fog. As far as mysterious, threatening places go, this isn’t the worst area to wake up in with no memory of how she came to be there. Death Valley, maybe, or Mount Everest, now _that_ would be a challenge...

Instead, it’s this dark, fairytale forest, albeit a wet one. The psychosphere vibrates with anxious, hungry energies. Ancient trees stitch together a canopy of thick leaves, filtering whatever light shone to dull turquoise. Something has broken the basic equation: as above is _not_ so below. The patter of rain masks her frantic breaths, her barefooted steps muffled by the soft, boreal earth. She could get around forever without shoes. ‘Forever’ is a long time, though.

She’d sooner figure out where the hell she is, why she ended up here, alone.

Just when she thinks a big, bad wolf or a bear might be coming to get her, the breeze changes direction, carrying the scent of smoke. She freezes and sniffs hopefully, looking around at a primordial metropolis of tree trunks. The only fire able to outlast this miserable weather has got to be indoors.

_Finally._

She turns toward the wind, rushing into the bushes, where something jerks her backwards.

Her shriek echoes in the gloom, but there’s no one around to hear it. Cursing under her breath, she turns around. A thorny branch is the culprit. Mother Nature isn't through with her yet, but she’s through with Mother Nature. She tears her cotton shirt free, gathering the loose end by her waist, tying it into a knot. She’ll need to preserve every stitch if she’s going to make it out alive. Preferably with her clothes intact.

She looks up, praying the rain will pass. Moody, temperamental clouds give no indication of day or night; they just keep on weeping.

It’s useless. She’s lost. Whisked off the map, by forces or people unknown. They could have at least _given_ her a map. A clue. Maybe she should stop and ask the crows for directions, but each time she gets near, they caw and fly away.

She pushes onward, favoring one leg over the other. Her head throbs, causing her vision to blur every so often. The forest is far too quiet and lonesome. She longs to see another human, to hear a friendly voice. If the devil himself showed up and asked for her company, she might have welcomed him.

Truly this must be an enchanted wood, because it grants her wish.

She happens upon the stranger just as the smoke intensifies. His back is turned and he’s dressed in leather. A woodsman or a hunter maybe, although those types don’t normally complete the look with a cowboy hat. She had better shout ‘howdy’ before he mistakes her for a two-legged deer. 

Her lips part in greeting.

He starts to turn around, and she glimpses what type of sinister contraption is clutched in his hands. She retreats speedily into the mist, but her heel lands on something brittle and white. An animal bone breaks in two with a resounding snap. She cringes, gnashing her teeth.

With a whirl of his leather coat, the stranger turns, lifting his ominous weapon to eye-level.

Her hands shoot up in surrender. “Wait!” she cries. “Please! I’m lost.”

Her shout gives him pause, and he scans her over. Surely he’d thought she was an animal? That would explain the bloodthirsty look, followed by his frown of disappointment.

“Can you please tell me where I am?” she begs. “I don’t know what’s going on. I’ve been out here for hours trying to find someone...”

With a hiss or a relenting growl, his shoulders sag. The rifle dips down, though not entirely. He closes the distance between them with a few careful strides, aided by a leg brace. It’s hard not to stare, so she flicks her gaze upon his face. A violent injury has left his jaw scarred and misaligned. And those eyes...unreal. 

This must be a dream. That is the only explanation.

She lowers her gaze and weaves her hands together, trying to steady her trembling fingers.

“Well, now,” she hears him drawl. “What’s a pretty young thing like you doin’ way out here in the woods?”

She peeks up at him. His expression has relaxed, somewhat. The question goes down easy and smooth, with hints of midwestern Irish. His outlaw-themed attire, rugged though it may be, doesn’t suit his environment. And that gun...she has no idea what to think of it. What to think of any of this, really.

She shakes her head. “I can’t remember.”

“Damn right.” His chuckle is winded, but genuine. When she gives him a puzzled look, he says, 

“Ain’t got much of a poker face. I could tell that as soon as you run up on me. Looked like a deer in the crosshairs.”

“If that’s true...” She licks her lips, her throat dry as a tumbleweed. “Then why didn’t you lower your gun right away?”

He shrugs, smirking. “What d’you remember, ‘fore you nearly got yerself impaled?”

She takes a cautious step back, as if a bunch of pine needles and sap can protect her from that spear. He’s seemingly at ease, almost too relaxed, standing there with the gun draped casually in his hands. She’s met more aggressive house cats. She tells herself to calm down and think.

“I woke up, alone,” she recalls. “After a while, there was a woman with green hair and a red jacket.”

He rumbles with disgust. Did he know this woman?

“She seemed friendly. As soon as I asked her what was going on, she pushed me to the ground and did _this_.”

She extends her twisted ankle. There are cuts and bruises in the shape of a combat boot.

The stranger turns and spits a wad of tobacco.

“Awful rude o’ her.”

“Yes,” she says bitterly. “Who does something like that? All I wanted was her help.”

“Who, indeed?”

He steps close enough for his long hair to tickle her shoulders, reaching into his coat. She shudders, a wave of dizziness washing over her. From a pouch on his bandolier, he pulls out a roll of soft cloth.

“Won’t get far on a bum ankle. I can bind it.”

She nods only out of politeness.

He kneels and takes her ankle in his hands. Grooved, dexterous fingers and wide, calloused palms wrap the cloth around her injury, warm and firm against her flesh. His touch is calculated, not gentle. She winces every time he puts pressure on a bruise.

“Did that woman say anythin’ to you?”

“Ow! What? Oh, yes. Hang on. When she pushed me, I cracked my head on a rock. My memory’s all fucked up.”

He pulls the dressing taut, winning another yip from her. His fingers fold the last bit into place, squeezing her ankle roughly.

She pulls, but he doesn’t let go.

“Try n’ remember. Might be important.”

“She said she was ‘sorry’ she had to do this to me. That she didn’t _want_ to. She must be crazy or something,” she blurts.

He lets her go and sets her foot on the ground.

“Sounds ‘bout right,” he grunts, going to scratch his long nose. She _swears_ he’s sneering behind his sleeve. 

“There’s all kinds of crazies in these parts, miss.”

“ _Great,”_ she sighs tearfully.

He pats her on the shoulder, gentler that time. As one would a spooked horse.

“Don’t go gettin’ all mopey on me. We’ll figure somethin’ out. First you outta let me look at that goose egg.”

Well, he hadn’t dismembered her the first time he’d touched her. She leans forward, and she’s pulled impatiently against his coat. His clothes reek of tobacco and gunpowder, and she tries not to inhale while his fingers delve past her wet hair, brushing it aside. She blushes fiercely despite her aching head.

“Yep. Got a nasty cut on here.” His chest rumbles against her forehead. “She sure did you dirty, accostin’ you for no reason.”

She clamps a hand over her mouth and nose, pulling away from him.

“Ugh. I made myself dizzy.”

“Steady, now. I ain’t haulin’ you anywhere and this rifle at the same time.”

While she sways, a complete stranger’s hand on her shoulder, trying to cobble events (and her stomach) together, his eyes surreptitiously rove over her body. All she has to protect her from the rain is a pair of jeans and the ripped cotton shirt. She crosses her arms over her chest, shivering, and steps away from him.

“I’m okay. Really.”

She takes a deep breath and tests her smarting ankle. He watches her, running his hand down the length of the rifle, dutifully wiping droplets and leaves clear. Her ankle is useless, even with the bandaging. She can barely put weight on it.

“I guess if she was trying to cripple me, she did a good job,” she mutters.

The sudden jerk of his head startles her.

“Sorry! That was ignorant, with your leg and all. I meant no offense.”

He tilts his head, as if unused to apologies or pity, unbothered by long uncomfortable silences. Like the one he forces her to endure, now. Then:

“C’mon,” he sighs. Almost disappointed.

He offers her his arm.

“There’s a hunter’s cabin just ahead. Got a fire goin’ and a warm bed to sleep in. You’ll be safe there.”

She reaches for him. Stops. “It’s not yours?”

He shrugs.

“Nah, I never owned a house. Never owned any land, neither. But I know these woods, well enough.”

She files away his use of the past tense for later, when there’s time to worry about things other than basic survival. She loops her arm around his thicker one. They walk side by side. Even with the brace, he’s better equipped to move around than she is. She struggles to keep up. He holds the rifle horizontally in his other hand, supernatural gaze fixed ahead, searching. Not for the cabin...

Sneaking upward glances at him, she begins to question her conscience, guilt settling on her shoulders. He seems friendly. Willing to help. He treated her injury when he could have shot her point-blank. She shouldn’t judge based on appearances. What did that say about her?

Of course he was just some hunter or outdoorsman. What else would he be?

“That chain,” she says, trying to make small talk. “Is that so your prey can’t get away?”

“Yes ma’am.”

She blushes.

“My own design,” he adds, with a hint of pride.

“You must be quite the weapons enthusiast, to make your own.”

“The lady’s lovely eyes are keen ones.”

Her blush deepens. She’s never been called things like ‘lady’ and ‘ma’am’.

He nudges her with his elbow and one of his glowing orbs winks.

“You look like you know how to protect yourself. I better watch my back.”

A friendly old man, when he’s joking. There’s muscle definition under his coat. Mechanic’s arms with a strong grip she had felt in person. The sleek, white hair might be premature, his face aged by the scarring. His hip and belt jostle against her waist, and she smiles awkwardly. She keeps her long list of curiosities to herself.

The cabin is just ahead, as promised. He hadn’t lied. She can see the orange light of a roaring fire and smoke billowing from a stone chimney. Relief floods her in waves. Favoring her good ankle, she leans a little more into him. A happy accident.

“Thank god,” she breathes. “I thought I’d be stuck out there forever.”

He smiles. Or smirks. It’s hard to tell with him.

 _Ding!_ A burst of power rings, causing her to jump.

He scowls, and her heart skips a beat. The stranger leads her into the center room of the cabin. Now that she’s inside, something seems...off. The place is the opposite of her escort: primal and uncivilized, vines and saplings crawling up the woodwork. Russian motifs on the tablecloth and wallpaper. _Someone_ indeed lives here; there are candles lit from every angle, as if the owner is afraid of the dark.

_Ding!_

Her company grows fiercer by the second, his movements quick. Agitated. Maybe he belongs here after all.

She backs away. “What’s wrong? What was that noise?”

“Wait here.”

He adjusts his hat, then takes the rifle in both hands, heading for the entrance.

“But-” she stammers.

“It ain’t safe out there for a nice girl like you.”

He bolts out the door like he’s on a mission. She rushes to the open doorway, watching him go. His slim, tall frame slips into the mist, leaving her in solitude once again. She wastes no time inspecting the cabin, where she makes discovery after grim discovery.

This is no ordinary hunter’s cabin. She is a fool for believing otherwise.

Standing before the butcher block, in the little alcove that serves as a ‘kitchen’, she debates her fate, her stomach sinking. The hatchet burrowed into the butcher’s block is too ungainly. She settles for a small paring knife, tucking it into her jeans. She could leave. She should. Flee, into the endless rain and cold. It might be the smarter decision, but her teeth haven’t stopped chattering. She must get warm first, then maybe she can find something to wear.

She stands by the fire, hugging herself, dripping over the woven floor mat. The first gunshot startles her. The screams start soon after that; at least two people, maybe three. All different directions, always accompanied by a shot.

If she runs away now, she’s dead meat. A prize to be hunted. Maybe playing a different game is the key to freedom.

When he returns—much faster than she anticipated—rain slithers down him in rivulets, but it’s not enough to wash the blood and bits of gore off the spear. There’s some spattered on his coat, if her eyes don’t deceive her. She’s starting to think she can’t trust them.

“No one’s gonna bother us, now,” he announces gruffly from the doorway. He takes the rifle and props it against the wall. She’d be an idiot to even try and use his own weapon against him.

Instead, she turns away from the fire, facing him. Hands clasped behind her back.

“You killed them. Why?”

He scoffs.

“Those rats didn’t have your best interests at heart. Look at what the one did to your ankle.”

“This isn’t your cabin,” she states.

“I never proclaimed otherwise.”

“Whose is it, then? There are _human remains_ in the corner, there!”

She points, shaking. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t care to even look, only staring at her. Her back brushes against the open window. Rain pours relentlessly, gushing off the eaves.

“I think I’ll be going now.”

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” he warns.

In the firelight, he is a glistening, savage thing, transplanted from a place and time far more merciless than this nurturing forest.

She shakes her head.

“Thank you, for your help. But I need to go.”

And slips out the window, making a run for it. A stone circle looms ahead, where she can see, bizarrely, that some pagan caretaker has lit votives and candles in the grooves hewn into solid rock. Strangely beautiful and somber in the gloom, she regards this vision for a second too long.

The gun cracks, and the candles blur into lines as she’s yanked backwards, by what feels like a barbed lasso. She looks down, sees the spear protruding from her side, and clamps her hands around it, whimpering. A perfect shot, just above the kidney. She blinks, and blinding pain gallops in as she’s dragged across the wide open threshold by the chain, leaving a trail of fresh blood. Her last waking thought is that the cabin is eating her alive.

The hand-crank ticks eagerly all the while.

Her vision blurs and she goes limp.

* * *

When it clears again, she’s bound by the wrists and ankles in chains upstairs, collapsed on a pile of hay. _Not_ the kind of protection she'd been hoping to find. She pulls and crawls as far as she can, to the edge of the landing. She can just barely see him on the first floor, where he holds the end of a metal rod into the scorching flames.

He hears the jangling, and looks up, removing the object from the fire.

“Should’ve listened.” 

He ascends the stairs. Thump, thump, thump. The branding rod burns hot and bright, a miniature sun.

She opens her mouth, but no scream emerges, only a strangled croak. Her t-shirt is soaked in blood and sticks to her side. The spear must have pierced something deep. She wiggles against the wall, shrinking back from him. The air around the red-hot iron ripples and steams.

He jerks her shirt up, revealing her wound. Fresh blood dribbles into the hay.

“Not my best shot, but it’s nothin’ ole Caleb can’t fix,” he says, much too happily. “Guess you’re stuck here a while. May as well make the best of it.”

A quick jerk of his arm, and the branding rod presses against her raw flesh with a sizzling sound.

She doesn’t hear her own ragged scream as she blacks out.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Those rats didn’t have your best interests at heart.”_

The echo of his words rouses her. In the cabin, no rats are scurrying, but horned silhouettes perform a swaying dance along the walls. Candle wax drips from the antler chandelier. Acrid smoke, which had given her so much hope earlier, now only serves to make her eyes water. No working grandfather clock ticks inside these walls, but the crackling logs serve as a crude reminder that time is steadily and assuredly burning.

While she’s immobilized, cruel little thoughts nibble away at her weak places.

_Why didn’t you leave when you had the chance?_

_Why did you trust him? He wanted to shoot you._

_Except he didn’t. Not until you ran and gave him a reason._

Her hand slams down on the wood and the chains clamor and chatter. Not even a minute awake, and she’s already making excuses for her captor. A man who is, most likely, her eventual murderer. Maybe even one or two other adjectives, depending on his intentions with the chains.

“Fuck,” she whispers. "Fuck!"

She flips over in the hay, biting her lip to stifle a moan, and pulls hard on her restraints. Her side smarts and blisters. She drops the chains, fearing the wound will reopen. The cuffs have begun to abrade her wrists and ankles, effectively trapping her on the second floor. They aren’t quite as sensual as she’d imagined.

Her fingers slip under her shirt, brushing the edge of the circular brand. She faces her own heart, as she faces the peeling folk patterns on the wall.

_This is no random act of fate. The burn proves it._

Maybe it is not her ‘ _lovely eyes’_ that are keen, but his. She’s always kept her darkest desires locked away, confiding in no one, not even the pages of her journal. Some things must be taken to the grave.

He might be a murderous gunman, but he's no mindreader.

Of course she’s being irrational, grasping for some silver lining to her situation. Even so, the proof is on display.

Peeling her shirt back as gently as she dares, she stares down at the ring-shaped burn on her side. Her letter glows as red as the midday sun. God only knows what the ‘H’ stands for.

She hears him thudding up the steps, but she doesn’t pull her shirt down in time.

When he sees her lying there, midriff exposed, belly soft and nubile, he takes a long pull off a bottle of whiskey, about two-thirds emptied, and slams it down. The amber liquid rises and creeps up the glass, refilled by an unknown source. He looks from the bottle, to her, at her shocked expression.

With a lopsided smile, his grizzled face becomes all crinkles and cheekbones, eyes even more aglow than usual. She hates how her heart speeds up, telling herself she’s just afraid.

“Some trick, eh?”

“You really are the devil,” she murmurs, pulling her shirt down.

He saunters over, bootfalls fuddled with drink, resting his hands on his knees and the same thorny smirk from before. Blood has seeped into his nail beds. He must have removed his stained coat downstairs, but some spatters remain on his faded, button-down shirt.

Wiping his hands on a bloody, oil-stained rag, he tucks the cloth into his back pocket.

“You give me too much credit, lass. I just work for him.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “A man’s due his compensations, now n’ then. When you work as hard as I, firewater’s on the house. I’ve been workin’ double-time so you and I can have our private audience.”

She tenses, curling into a ball. “Is that what I am? Some kind of reward?”

He scratches his jaw. The less-affected side. “Maybe you’d like that?”

The very idea of that mouth on her…those hands…her curiosity is pulling her into a deeper space, where unspoken things manifest freely and without restraint.

As if submerged in cold liquid, her nipples grow hard and obvious under her shirt.

“ _No_ ,” she spits emphatically.

“Heh. We’ll see.”

Looking up at her captor, at the roses on his normally pale cheeks, she can’t be sure if the drink has emboldened or tempered him. Could he _be_ more of a prick? He’d literally speared and dragged her across the floor just to get her up there. A man who gets what is rightfully his, come hell or high water.

“I want to know what’s going on,” she pleads up at him. “Why you killed those people. Why you kidnapped us and brought us out here. So you could hunt us, is that it?”

He shakes his head, and she coils into a tighter ball. He gives credence to her hidden fears, declaring:

“I didn't put you way out here. You’re a quick one to blame.”

“You’re lying. You've got to be. That _is_ what happened.” 

She unfurls her limbs to jump to her feet, but the chains pull her back. She falls on her knees before him. Begging to be gagged, but she can't help herself.

“You can tell me, Caleb. I won’t report you. I swear. Just let me go.”

Her pathetic tactics don’t appeal to one so deafened to the bleats of captive, wanted men. Strain and contempt twist his smile into something predatory.

Instead of backtracking, she yanks on her chains, snarling,

“God damn it, why am I here? You’re crazy, is that it? Or maybe the only way you can get women is to chain them up. Is your dick that small and broken?”

He lunges. She flinches away, but he only jerks her shirt back, exposing the burn to the open air. That bloodied rag with the oil stains is dangling from his pocket—the blood isn't hers, and she recoils—but his fingers distract as he presses and tugs her flesh this way, that way, checking for bleeding. She hisses and raises a knee as far as her bonds permit, wishing she could kick him.

 _He’s_ the one causing this agony, but he’s acting like the village healer.

“You’re sick,” she says, through gritted teeth. “And a bad liar. That’s what I think. No cop will believe you without a good story, so you'd better get working on it.”

She just gave him permission to write her eulogy, and she shuts her mouth. No gag necessary. He takes his hand off her, stepping back.

“Are you that anxious to die?” he asks.

She falls silent.

“As for my dick, it works just fine.”

He squeezes her knee, shooting an unbidden tremor through her. She didn’t think it was possible to be aroused with a third-degree burn on her torso, limbs weighed down by heavy bonds, but she’s shattering all sorts of personal records today.

“ _Sick,_ _liar_ , and _crazy,_ was it?” he repeats quietly. “Lucky for you, you heal up nicer’n you talk.”

From the back of his belt, he takes out the iron rod and twirls it in front of her eyes. She feels her gorge rise and swallows.

“O’ course, Hellshire Iron’s never failed me before. So you can’t even take credit for your own recovery.”

He taps the tip of her nose with the cold rod. Inhaling sharply, she grits her teeth and has a mind to fling curses and threats a woman in her position has no business making. Quick as a rattlesnake, he lashes out and seizes her by the chin. She settles fast.

He traces the iron along her collar bone, saying in a lower tone,

“So, how ‘bout a thank you?”

His nails nip into her skin. She blinks away tears, glancing at the rod, back at him.

“T-thank you,” she says. Eyes wet and shining.

“God-damn, that was sincere, wasn’t it?” he marvels.

He straightens his long spine, sets the hateful thing down, and takes another swallow of whiskey, mumbling under his breath.

She starts to ask (or beg) him to explain, but he starts taking off his bandoliers. Scooting back against the wall, she draws her knees to her chest.

“Sheepish, all of a sudden?” he asks, and the bandoliers plummet with a clink of metal. “Couldn’t get you to shut up earlier.”

He hefts the speargun, which she has all but forgotten about. Now she really _does_ start to cry. Her words come out strangled and thick.

“Please, don’t hurt me.”

Weapon in both hands, he backs her tighter into the corner. Her nails rake into the floorboards. The paring knife slips and slides as her spine soaks with sweat.

“Nothin’ personal, lass. Like I said, the devil’s been workin’ my hands to the bone. I’m overdue for a reward.”

He tugs on his belt and frees it from the clasp. As if she needs proof of his intent.

Well, now that she has it... 

“But if this lovesick vulture _offends_ you so, I can let you go, n’ you can try your luck in the woods. Busted ankle and all. Or, you can stay.”

She loathes that she can’t look him in the eye. Shame turns all of her away, even as her body responds eagerly to the promise of temporary release. The cuffs are hot and tight against her flushed skin.

“Okay. Just don’t hurt me.”

He considers this, and props the rifle against the wall. He sinks down, his belt falling open, and she can plainly see how incensed he is, his elongated lust bulging against the fabric along his thigh. Even on his knees, he towers over her. His silver mane looks soft and lovely to the touch.

“Good woman. Knew you were special.”

He brushes her tangled hair from her shoulder, drinking in the sight of her bare neck. Reluctantly, she tilts her head back, giving him full access. He starts kissing there, working his way all along that tender pillar of skin, his mouth rough and bristled as nettle. Everywhere he touches burns and tingles.

“It’s a mercy I’m doin’ you, really. You’ll see what I mean, one day.”

If the definition of mercy changed recently, nobody saw fit to tell her.

His beard tickles her ear, and she shudders. She shies away from his lips, hoping he at least won’t try to kiss her, but an insistent hand cups her jaw, forcing her to face him. She lets his mouth explore her lips, all around it, along her jaw. Hints of tobacco and the sharp bite of whiskey. As far as taste goes, she expected worse. A pity, because she’s starting to feel an addiction coming on.

She lets him fall on top of her, one of her hands pinned under her back. The wooden shaft of the knife is warm against the death grip of her fingers.

Their horizontal movements cause her shirt to ride up again. He cups her ass, getting a brief handful, before sliding his fingers along the curve of her waist. Her burn lights up, the tortured nerves firing at once, and she arches with a little cry, hips crashing into his bonier ones. He inhales sharply with a groan and lowers himself, pinning her to the floor, belt buckles digging in. She feels her own betraying slick soak through her jeans.

“Couldn’t let you go back into the fryin’ pan, just yet.” His lusty mutterings sound like a confession. Prisoner babble. Like he’s justifying something to himself.

“That’s why I had to stop the wound from bleeding…”

She should hate him for all of this, but oh, God, he feels way too fucking good against her cold skin.

He props himself up on one elbow, his other hand exploring beneath her shirt. He arrives at a soft mound and his thumb catches a nipple. He pinches and flicks it, using just enough force. Sighing, she presses up into him again, her hips searching achingly for purchase, needing to be anchored to him. He feels so good, for a tiny, insignificant moment, her fingers loosen around the knife while her back is lifted off the floor. She never wants his touch to end.

Such is the fate of all good things.

He reaches around, fingers spidering down the little notches of her spine. Too preoccupied with kissing her neck again to see her horrified expression. He grazes her fingers, still wrapped around the wooden handle. His eyes go wide. He pulls back from the kiss he’d been about to press between her breasts. 

She never knew cirrostratus halos could be so frightening.

Out of sheer terror, her fist comes out from under. The little blade sinks deep into his shoulder. A clumsy, sideways strike, warped by the chains. She moans with regret the second it’s over. _Idiot, you fucking idiot, he just wanted to fuck you and you wanted him to..._

With a roar, he rises up from her and reaches around, ripping the blade free. He throws it over the edge of the landing and the back of his hand blurs. Her head smacks against the floor with a crack. Her body goes limp, her cheek bleeding.

“It’ll take more than a pinprick to kill me, darlin’. Much more.”

He loosens the red scarf around his neck, throwing that aside as well. Past the divide of his shirt, she can see more than a hint of scarring where a rope once cut into his neck. Not even an executioner's noose could hold him, and she had thought with a paring knife...

All pretense abandoned, he removes both belts joylessly. Too fast. She peels up from the floor, quivering.

“Caleb, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it! You scared me and I-”

Ignoring her, he grabs the rifle from the wall. He holds it flat and thrusts it under her neck, pinning her down by the throat. She claws at the gun but he squeezes the air out. When she’s good and stunned, he fumbles with the zip of his pants, then hers, yanking her jeans down in one swift, unceremonious pull.

He takes himself out and lines up with her. She is still plenty slick from earlier and sensitive, legs parting for him even _in extremis_.

“I’m sorry,” she rasps.

Her apologies wither once he pushes inside. The rifle digs into her neck as he pushes down with a baleful growl, pushing inside her, pushing everywhere. Her head swims, but she’s more than aware of the fevered thrusts of his hips. His cock plunges and delves, hitting deep and hard against her walls, his reach everything she had craved a few remorseful seconds ago. She tries to focus on that, and not on the gun cutting off her air supply.

His thumb finds its way to her mouth, resting on her lower lip. She sucks it fervently. Apology accepted.

He pulls out, lifting the rifle at the same time. She takes a few ragged breaths, massaging her throat. Her legs are lifted into the air and he pulls them around himself, nestling snugly between her thighs. Once she’s thoroughly pinned and in his grip, he enters her again with a quick flex. She tilts and overflows, all over the hay-lined floor, softly wailing her pleasure. He quickly rides out to meet her, a look of pure determination on his face, their soaked skin making obscene sounds in the quiet cabin. She’s about to ask for his seed right as he finishes, pulling out, throwing his rope on her belly instead.

He breathes for a second, and she watches him, the sweat beading on his scars. The agitation is gone, the anger abated. He stares off into the shadows, thoughts preoccupied. He rises. Dresses himself, adjusting the bandoliers and brace. His hat stayed on the entire time, somehow surviving both stabbings. He considers tossing her the bloodied rag, but throws her his scarf instead.

“I forgive you,” he says, as she wipes herself clean. “But I wouldn’t make me regret my decision again, if I were you.”

Down the stairs, and she hears the sweep and jangle of his coat. He heads out into the woods, rifle in hand.

She nods off to sleep. It’s restless and full of demonic voices, all whispering to her at once, until many voices become one. When she wakes, she rolls over to the ledge and watches him cross the threshold. Standing in a beam of moonlight, he wipes glistening hands on that damned rag. He vanishes. There’s a splashing of water.

A few veiled, sleep-induced moments later:

“So kind of my boss, to give my leash some slack.”

She peers over her bruised shoulder at him. Tall and prideful, his orbs lighting up the gloom. He seems pleased with himself.

“Nice to work for someone that finally understands me.”

“Who’s your boss?” she asks, lowering her cheek against the woodgrain. Warm, almost alive against her skin. A slight throbbing beneath her navel, her sex sore and placated.

“Wouldn’t be so eager to find out, darlin’.”

 _How kind of you to protect me._ She’s too exhausted to fight back for answers.

He places the gun on a child’s colorful bureau and starts the long, arduous process of disassembling the rifle, each part meaner and more precise than the last. With his weapon he is ceremonious. Careful. Cleaning every last piece, then painstakingly putting it together. Just what sort of monster is he? Where did he come from? What were they both doing out in these woods, if he hadn’t brought her here?

Most importantly, how the hell is she going to escape?

It’s not to sheep, but this futile line of questioning that she drifts off. She wakes but once, to feel him lay down beside her with a rustle of hay. An arm snakes around and pulls her close. It would be almost intimate and sweet, if she wasn't aching from a dozen different places. At his nearness, her body's complaints subside.

She stirs a little, and he pulls her even tighter against him.

Maybe he can read what’s in her heart, after all.


End file.
